4.
Which flower I love, I cannot discover;
This grief doth impart.
In every calix I search like a lover,
And seek a heart.
The flowers smell sweet in the sun’s setting splendour,
The nightingale sings.
I seek for a heart that like my heart is tender,
And like it springs.
The nightingale sings; his sweet song, void of gladness,
Comes home to my breast;
We’re both so oppress’d and heavy with sadness,
So sad and oppress’d.